Yesterday at 11:11 PM
Hiroyi: ♡
That was the last thing she ever sent me. Just a heart. The soft kind, pink, stupid, harmless. It stared back at me like a joke.
Hiyori's gone.
The word doesn't sting.
It's just there.
She's not coming back. She took her own life last night, in her room, behind a door her family assumed was just locked for privacy.
They found her this morning.
I found out standing outside the school gates, watching the teachers whisper into each other's ears like cowards. No one told me directly. I saw it in their eyes. Pity. Guilt. Fear.
She's dead and the world? Still spinning.
Classmates still breathing. Laughter still echoing in the hallway like nothing happened. One girl was applying lip gloss in the window reflection when I walked past. Another was whispering.
"I bet it was for attention."
Right.
Because that's all Hiyori ever was to them, a threat. Too pretty, too bright and alive, it made them sick.
They bullied her in silence.
The kind that doesn't leave bruises. Just little cuts no one sees.
"She wears too much makeup."
"She thinks she's some Tokyo model."
"No wonder she doesn't have real friends."
Fake smiles, dirty looks, whispers behind her back they thought she couldn't hear. But she did and now those same people are crying in the classroom. Like she was their best friend. Like they gave a damn.
I walk past them. I don't stop. I don't say a word. If I open my mouth right now, I might not stop. I might burn the whole building down with my words.
I feel nothing.
Not yet, not even grief
Just something sharper.
Something closer to hate.
The kind of hate that brews slow, under your ribs, behind your teeth. That doesn't scream or punch.
And I swear to God, I'll remember every face.
Every voice that mocked her.
Every silence that ignored her.
Because Hiyori was gold in a sea of plastic and they hated her for it. She talked about traveling. She wanted to study abroad in Malaysia, save up from her part-time job, taste new food, make dumb videos, write a blog in broken English and they laughed.
Said she was "trying too hard."
Now they get to say "rest in peace" and move on. Post blurry photos of her on their stories like it means something. Use her death like a prop for sympathy. Tag her in posts she'll never see.
Me? I don't get to move on.
I don't want to.
She was mine and they killed her in pieces. They just didn't hold the blade but I'll remember who handed it to her.